ARRIVING in London trailing clouds of scandal, violence and dissent, the Bolshoi needed to launch a counter-offensive of incredible artistry to heal its public profile.

The opening ballet in celebration of their 50th Anniversary lacks the propellant necessary to achieve this aim completely.

While the company itself appears in good shape, this is a poor vehicle for its collective and individual talents. Yuri Grigorovich's 2001 version of the Petipa/Ivanov classic makes a pudding out of a meringue.

He removes much of the narrative gesture from the opening act to the detriment of the story, replacing it with endless group dancing. He even messes around with the music, subtracting, re-ordering and even (I am certain) making stuff up.

If I were Tchaikovsky, I'd come out of my grave to slap him around a bit.

But the talent is undoubtedly present. As Odette/Odile, Svetlana Zakharova is a magnificent creature - a genuinely credible Swan Queen with liquid arms and expressive line.

A cool beauty with a turbo-charged technique she resembles a pitiless Russian hitwoman on point. If her Prince Siegfried (Alexander Volchkov) is a dull old thing in comparison it hardly matters as he is invisible whenever she is on stage. While the lack of chemistry between them results in an erotically anaesthetised seduction scene there are compensations elsewhere.

One of Grigorovich's additions is to have The Evil Genius (Vladislav Lantratov)) cast a kind of spell over Siegfried from the start - an alteration that makes no narrative sense whatever but allows for some great shadow dancing between the two.

Among the ensemble, the trio of yellow-clad Friends of the Prince are outstanding, particularly the impish Anastasia Stashkevich.

So, too, are the Princesses introduced as would-be brides for the diffident Prince.

While the company itself appears in good shape, this is a poor vehicle for its collective and individual talents

Best of all, the statuesque Anna Tikhomirova sets fire to the stage as The Spanish Bride, combining an incendiary technique with a genuine sense of character. Of all the dancers, she and Lantratov display the kind of blazing attack that typifies the Bolshoi style.

Even the murky lighting of the lakeside scenes cannot dispel the magic of the corps of twenty-four swans who are just about as perfect as it is possible to be without being machines.

Every ebb and flow of limb, every turn of head and every pointilliste step is danced with the precision of a brain surgeon wielding a laser scalpel.

A subdued start to the season, then. But the omens are good for the work remaining.